


we're having a heatwave

by funvee



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Crack, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2013-08-08
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/916974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/funvee/pseuds/funvee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek wears skin-tight shorts. Just...that's it. (There might be a heatwave involved, or something.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	we're having a heatwave

**Author's Note:**

> This is pure fluff and crack. It is completely unbetaed, due to me writing it at 1am and no one being around. Enjoy.
> 
> As always, dedicated to the lovely Lani.
> 
>  

“What are you _wearing_?” 

The question is out of his mouth before he can yank it back in, but c’mon, who can blame him, really? Derek Hale, of all people, is standing in front of him wearing a ridiculously tight pair of cut-off jean shorts, which means Derek probably took a pair of his regular jeans and just went to town on them. Most likely with his claws, and probably out of sheer frustration due to the weather. 

It _is_ one of the hottest summers on record in Beacon Hills, temps high up in the nineties, and on one disgustingly memorable day, up into the hundreds. Stiles doesn’t even have air conditioning, and he knows for a fact that Derek doesn’t, seeing as he managed to find himself the shittiest loft in all of Beacon County, so he doesn’t blame the guy for wanting to cool off a little. But jean shorts? Not a good look. (Though he has to admit that Derek could probably wear a plastic bag around his crotch and he’d still wanna piece of that.) 

“Shorts,” is the answer he gets. It’s not an elaborative statement, but it wasn’t like Stiles was expecting Derek to wax poetic about his own clothing choices, however strange they are. It was just weird, seeing Derek’s pale, hairy calves, amongst…other things, but…legs! Stiles still didn’t believe Derek had genuine human legs, despite seeing him without pants. Like, maybe he had poles or something. He wasn’t sure what he had been expecting, really, but there they were for the whole world to see, in all their pale, hairy glory.

But that wasn’t what the problem was. The problem was that Stiles could see every. single. line. of Derek’s. junk. And it wasn’t even a bad thing, as long as Derek didn’t leave the loft, or go out in public, where other people could see. Stiles was fine with the view, really. But um…no one else needed to witness it. For reasons.

“Yeah, I can…uh…see that,” Stiles says, nodding, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. He’s trying not to burst into laughter, but it’s proving to be more difficult than he had originally thought. Snickers slide into the air, and Derek must hear, because he turns and scowls across the room at him. 

“What’s wrong with them?” He asks, more defensive than is probably necessary. They’re talking about _shorts_ after all, not a political lobby or something. Derek crosses his arms over his chest and shoots a glare at him. 

“They’re just…um…they’re _jean shorts._ ” Stiles says, waving both his hands at Derek’s lower half. He’s not sure why he has to explain this to Derek. Can’t he feel what’s going on down there? Or is that the problem, that the shorts have literally cut off all circulation to Derek’s dick? And if that’s the case, they have a much bigger problem at hand. 

“You have shorts on,” Derek points out, interrupting his’ thoughts. He shoves one long finger towards Stiles’ legs. And he does, he does have shorts on. But, uh. His aren’t displaying his junk like an x-ray.

“These?” He plucks at the knit fabric covering his thigh. These were maroon at one time, but now they’re sort of a faded dark pink. He had found them in the back of his closet, under an old backpack and a pair of mismatched sneakers. The lacrosse logo from high school is peeling off of the hip, the original color of the knit peeking out from under it, but whatever. They’re comfortable. “I cut up a pair of old sweatpants, dude.”

“And I cut up an old pair of jeans. I don’t see what your problem is,” Derek says, doing the whole intimidating arm cross thing that stopped being scary like four minutes after Stiles met him. It’s not really working with the whole…shorts thing.

Stiles isn’t sure how long he’s going to be able to hold out. Not with the view he has, not with the look Derek’s giving him. He squints his eyes shut and scratches at his ear, trying to find a better way to go about getting his…whatever Derek is…out of those really rather atrocious shorts. 

“They’re kinda tight, aren’t they?” Stiles offers, tilting his head to the side, like maybe Derek will agree with him and go find something else to wear. Maybe all he needs is a little hint, Stiles thinks, before he remembers how completely dense Derek can be about some things. 

Derek looks down at himself and _completely misses the obvious._ He then replies, “Kind of, but not any worse than anything else?” And sure, Derek does wear some awfully tight pants — Stiles has seen him sport some that he’s not entirely sure how the man moved in them, let alone fought in them, but these shorts take it to a whole other level.

“No, no. They’re worse,” Stiles says, eyes going wide. He’s trying so hard not to look at Derek’s crotch but it’s like there’s a high powered magnet there. A magnet shaped like Derek’s dick…that his eyes are glued to. “Definitely worse,” he adds, blinking. Stiles forces his eyes to leave Derek’s crotch. He looks at the wall for a while, and then at the mirror behind Derek, in which he catches a reflection of half of Derek’s ass. Yeah, that….did not help things any.

When he looks back up, Derek’s staring at him like he’s grown extra limbs. Stiles blinks, clears his throat, blinks again and just…throws everything into the wind.

“Uh, you might just…wanna. I dunno, turn around maybe?” Stiles offers, pointing at the mirror. Derek raises an eyebrow at the suggestion, but slowly, turns around. It takes a second or two, but Stiles can see the instant Derek catches on — his entire face turns pink, all the way up to the tips of his ears. 

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

“You can see — “

“Everything, yeah.”

Derek covers his face with his hands. 

“You could just take them off?” Stiles volunteers, snickering again. Derek lowers his hands and stares at him in the reflection of the mirror. Stiles shrugs, gets one bark of laughter out before Derek’s turning around, expression dark.

“Should I?” Derek says, stalking towards him, eyes gone black. He looks ready to leap across the room and shove Stiles into the floor or mattress or whatever the hell is behind him. (What room are they in again? He can’t remember. Too distracted.) Stiles’ eyes go wide for a split second, before he looks down and promptly bursts into laughter. 

“Dude, normally, this whole spiel would have me going, but _honestly?_ I can’t take you seriously in those things.” Stiles waves at Derek’s crotch, which is now inches away from his hands. He closes the gap between him and Derek, grabbing at the belt loops of the jean shorts and tugs on them. Derek allows himself to be tugged, and moves to stand in front of Stiles. 

“I think you’re gonna have to cut these off of yourself. How’d you even get them on?”

“There might have been some…wiggling…involved,” Derek admits, leaning down to press his face into Stiles’ neck, who huffs out a laugh. Stiles slides his arms around the older man and tries to slip his hands into the back pockets of the shorts and discovers that he _can’t_. 

“Okay. For real, Derek. Please take the shorts off,” Stiles says, leaning back to give his best serious expression. “I’m worried about your dick, okay? If I can’t even get my hands into your pockets, what’s going on in the front of these things?”

“Alright, fine,” Derek says, sliding out of Stiles’ grip and walking backward towards the bathroom. (So they’re in the bedroom, then. Good to know.) The door closes behind him, and Stiles is left standing in the middle of the room looking lost. How had today started, again? How had he ended up here talking Derek out of skin-tight shorts? He can’t remember. 

The door to the bathroom opens, and a second later, a pair of jean shorts hits him in the face.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm on [tumblr.](http://funvee.tumblr.com/)  
> i never have any idea what to rate these things.


End file.
